Bloodstone(72)

‘The book has been returned.’ Prior Alexander was flustered. Trying to regain his dignity, he glanced sharply at Richer. ‘The book has been restored to its proper owner.’

‘With the permission of the Crown,’ Athelstan asked, ‘did you make a copy?’ Athelstan demanded, ‘Well, did you?’

Richer simply spread his hands, Prior Alexander slipped further down his chair.

‘There’s no “Liber”, no copy,’ Richer muttered.

‘I might insist on searching this abbey, including your chamber, Richer.’

‘You can’t . . .’

‘We can and we might,’ Cranston retorted.

‘The Passio Christi,’ Athelstan asked, ‘do any of you know where the bloodstone is?’

‘No,’ Richer’s voice was restrained, ‘I swear, no!’

‘The Passio Christi,’ Athelstan got to his feet, ‘and the book about it hold the key to all this mystery, and the question which lies at the very heart of it: why did Sir Robert change so radically? There was more to that than his own scruples or your eloquence, Richer.’

‘I cannot help you on that!’

‘Never mind.’ Cranston rose and stood over the Frenchman. ‘You, Brother, whoever you may be, are confined to this abbey. Any attempt to flee will be construed as a treasonous act.’

‘I’m a Frenchman.’

‘And His Grace, King Richard,’ Cranston thrust his face down, ‘also claims to be King of France. Richer, you are confined to this abbey under pain of treason. Brother Athelstan?’

The coroner and friar stepped out of the chamber. Once they’d left the courtyard Athelstan paused.

‘Perhaps we should begin now, Sir John.’

‘Begin what?’

‘Our search!’

Cranston agreed. He and Athelstan adjourned to the library. Richer joined them. Athelstan told him to stand aside, yet even as they searched Athelstan realized they would find nothing amongst this precious collection of books. Richer was cunning. Should they, Athelstan wondered, demand that the sub-prior’s chamber also be searched? But, there again, the Frenchman was now alert to the danger. Moreover, although the ‘Liber Passionis Christi’ might prove very useful, its disappearance did not prove Richer, or anyone else, to be an assassin or a thief. Athelstan sighed as he placed the last book, a copy of Lucretius, back on the shelf.

‘Sir John, I’m ready!’ The firedrake in all his garish glory marched into the library. Cranston smiled at Athelstan and both followed this eccentric character out through the cloisters to Mortival meadow where the abbey chandler waited.

‘I’ve everything prepared.’

The firedrake pointed to a barrel with a capped tallow candle on its upturned end. The firedrake struck a tinder, sheltering its flame against the boisterous cold breeze. The wick flared into life. The firedrake hastily withdrew. The tongue of flame danced even though it was protected by the concave-shaped cap. Cranston stamped his feet impatiently; almost in response the candle dissolved in a burst of angry, spitting flames. Small tongues of fire shot up to land, hissing like snakes on the frost-hardened grass. The top of the dry wooden barrel caught light, flames licked down its side already smouldering from the spits of fire. Soon the entire barrel was alight. Athelstan thought the flames would die but then a fresh burst flared up, angry shoots of fire leaping so swift and fierce the entire barrel was soon reduced to blackened wood crumbling away in fiery fragments.

‘You see.’ The firedrake was almost dancing with glee whilst the abbey chandler beamed at the dying fire. The monk abruptly remembered what he was doing and hurriedly pulled a more mournful face. ‘That’s how Brokersby died,’ the firedrake declared.

‘Do explain,’ Cranston insisted.

Athelstan sniffed the grey-black smoke and walked closer to the dying fire. The tang of oil was strong, needle-thin rivulets of smoking blackness scored the frozen grass.

‘Very simple.’ The firedrake breathed in the smoke as if it was the very incense of heaven.

‘Then keep it so,’ Cranston retorted, ‘and brief. I’m freezing.’

‘Come, come,’ the chandler insisted on taking them back to his own work shop, a large chamber which reeked of oil, cordage and wax. He made them sit on stools around a brazier which sparkled just like a ruby. Athelstan, clutching the cup of posset the chandler served, ruefully wondered on the whereabouts of the bloodstone.

‘Very simple.’ The firedrake held up a large tallow candle. He turned this upside down tapping its base. ‘You hollow this out and pour in oil, perhaps add some salt-petre powder, the type used by the King’s newfangled cannons – you’ve seen them at the Tower?’